Let me explain you something: You don’t have to live up to the crazy ideal of ‘Yummy Mummy’

I am admittedly reading too much feminist literature at the moment.  An upcoming project on body image in female weightlifters has me surrounded by a pile of books from the 70's.  It has me thinking far too much and too deeply about the origin of our society's body norms.  But these now old women with no bras have some pretty good points.  We women spend our entire youth learning the art of feminine wiles with the ultimate aim of being attractive enough to bag a fella who's successful enough to keep us housed and fed.  And then you breed, while hopefully maintaining enough of your looks to keep him hooked.

Although it seems a pretty harsh way to look at something that for many of us is our personal love story, it does offer some perspective on the pressures faced by modern mums, and the dilemmas posed by the modern social archetype of the Yummy Mummy.  The books on my desk from the 80's mourn the death of feminism and that from the 60's, in a brief 15-20 years, it was dropped from political and social consciousness like an ugly prom date. And indeed, most women I know wouldn't count themselves as feminists, even though they'd be all up for equal pay.  So feminism got forgotten as soon as women were allowed to work and sexual harassment became an actual crime, rather than just the normal way chicks got spoken to by men.  Now feminism is kind of like a dirty word, as if pointing out any potential inequality still lurking between the genders is just being a grumpy man-hater.

But the feminists nowadays, if there are any left, would surely have something to say about the Yummy Mummy obsession in modern media and society.  It's not enough to have got pregnant, endured the birth, the sleepless nights, the contentious breastfeeding decisions, the relationship changes.  Oh no, what's important is that you looked good doing it.  It’s not that there’s anything wrong with the immaculately turned out mum.  The one with perfectly toned tummy, despite the three month old cooing away contentedly in her coordinated designer buggy/car seat/nappy bag combo.  Flowing, freshly washed tresses of expensive looking highlights framing a surprisingly glowing and well-rested complexion.  She's had the time to wash her jeans and that shirt looks downright ironed!  And all that before we even start with the well turned out baby.  Hot damn, how does she do it?  And what's wrong with the rest of us?  Trudging zombie-like to the corner shop with Rice Krispies in our hair.  Somebody else's Rice Krispies.  From yesterday's breakfast. 

And I guess the problem with the Yummy Mummy is that it is a concept used against the rest of the Rice Krispie encrusted ones; one that keeps us all chasing an impossible and ridiculous ideal.  A kind of measuring stick against which we all fall short.  It’s an unfair expectation, and one that places the value of a mum on her appearance primarily.  Her sexual appeal is still the most important and defining factor in her value, over and above the other million strengths, abilities and sacrifices she makes daily.  It's a distraction from the important stuff, like actually raising the kids.  As with the term MILF, which inelegantly implies that mothers fall neatly into two categories - ones that you'd still do it with and ones you wouldn't.  And as crude as it is, modern mothers would rather be a MILF than not.  But you can hardly blame them as it's an image that we are bombarded with in the media - how beautiful so-and-so looks and how fast she dropped the baby weight and how bloody happy she is.  Sorry, but I call bullshit. 

What can I say about the frumpy mum?  The fat mum? The frazzled, haggard, one trying to hold down whatever career a person can manage on three hours sleep and un-brushed teeth while still having to be the spring of eternal patience and love for little junior.  The ones that haven't lost the baby weight, can't be bothered to match their socks and let their children wear whatever scabby bits of ill-fitting clothes are clean.  These kind are ignored, although they are the real deal.  They are less represented in what we read and see and maybe even are kind of frowned upon, if we're all honest with ourselves.  Or at least it’s pretty true that the ones who appear to have all together and look good doing it are praised as the shining examples of womanhood. 

It's not fair, and I'd even go so far as to say that the label of Yummy Mummy is sexist.   I'm not blaming men.  After all, we can decide what media to read, what to believe and choose to value ourselves for more than our sexual appeal.  It's just that collectively, maybe even without realising it, we all expect a lot from a mother.  That she has it all, does it all and manages to look good doing it.  For me, I'm giving myself permission to dry shampoo another day so I can focus on what's important rather than whether or not it's attractive. 

Potty training: Adventures in wee puddles

The changing table sits in the corner of the living room - an overflowing, all-purpose trap for all things diaper and cleaning related.  Wipes, towels, clothing changes and random bits of baby equipment fill its shelves.  It was a life saver in the early days, but is beginning to out live its nesessitiy. And it's charm.  

Ethan has been able to request nappy changes when needed for a few months and has even taken to climbing to the top the changing table on his own.   We can all tell it's time for the next stage.  

We bought the potty, made a big thing about how cool it was, but he could smell us out.  You could almost see his little cogs turning, thinking, 'So now you want me to do something new, do you? Well, we'll see.'  Ethan has never been one to do things in demand.  It's all on his schedule.  There was a long period where we knew he could walk, he knew he could walk, but he just didn't want to, almost as response to our wide-eyed, you-can-do-it encouragement.   But in the end, he did it when he was ready.  Not a moment sooner.

And the same seems to be unfolding with potty training.  Every attempt to talk about the potty has been met with a sort of 'Yeah, whatever!' as he trundles off towards something else.  But I know the key to all attention - M&Ms! So we made a big deal of it - going to buy the big boy pants, placing the M&Ms in sight but out of reach like a colourful, enticing temptation.   We put a his favourite shows on the iPad, whipped that nappy off and waited.  

We waited for 2 hours.  He drank juice.  He drank milk.  He sat on the potty intermittently, but preferred to roll his full bladder around on the sofa and other soft furnishings.  Turns out, that boy can hold it.  Finally, the smallest trickle of wee made it into the potty, and at a time when he just happened to be perching on it.  Hurray!  Lots of M&Ms and snuggles!  I put his new tiger-print big boy undies on him and said that if he had to do another wee, we could use the potty instead of a nappy.  He nodded, but looked a little stunned.

I went to the kitchen for a moment, feeling like super mom, but I had no idea a little guy could have such a massive bladder.  As I returned to the living room, he was awkwardly trying to sit back on the potty, as he peed with full hurricane force through his new tiger pants.  Still I was proud of him aiming for the potty, so even more M&Ms which he stuffed in as fast he could.  

Still fairly pleased, I set about mopping up the wee puddles.  Wondering what kind of cleaner one uses for these things and if they make a special one for potty training, like the cleaners for dog messes.  But the seal had been broken, and I was only in the eye of the wee hurricane. He sat himself on the floor - in another pair of new dry pants - and an even larger puddle starts to spread from under him.  I must say, I really underestimated the amount of wee those nappies must hold.  I used up almost a whole roll of kitchen towels!

But we are off to a start.  We revisit the potty most days and expect he will just decide when he's ready to make the change.  Even the M&Ms don't fool him, he's on to us and our tactics.  In the meantime, I'm enjoying the last bit of babyhood before we pack that changing table away and reclaim the living room.  Truth is, I don't know whether to smile or cry.

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Two years on....

My baby is grown.  He is a little boy.  Running,  chatting,  sprouting an ever bigger personality.  It’s a wonderful time, but my mind has not caught up.  I still see him as my little cuddly bundle.  It's only when I see 6 month-olds that I realise how far away we are from baby-hood.  He can still be my sweet baby, crawling up into my lap for snuggles from mom at those times when he needs a little recharge.  The he's up and off, going about his grown up business.

As I look back, I've learned a lot.  Also, I can't think of what life is about, if not this little family that we have.  What did I ever do before?  I wonder even, what was important to me before? It's like looking back into another existence, another lifetime.  I've learned about children, obviously, but I've learned more about people, life, relationships and myself.  

Seeing this tender life come up, I'm constantly reminded that the most important thing - the only important thing! -  in life is love.  How much time I wasted worrying about the pregnancy, how to feed him, what stuff we would provide him.  Now that I have had a chance to get to know him, to see what a child really needs, I worry less about the periphery stuff.  I want to give him whatever he wants, if I can.  But I know the most valuable thing I can give is love.  Whatever life has dealt us and whatever it will bring, love is what he will measure his life by.

And two years on, Noah is still in my heart.  I feel like I want to share that I still cry, almost daily.  Sometimes just a silent tear or two whenever his memory feels near to me.  I don't fight it.  I see it as part of my special role as his mother.  I will cry for him forever, missing him with every fibre of my body, like a pain.  I possibly miss him more as I see Ethan's personality grow.  I wonder.   I 'what if'.  I get angry.  I cry for his pain.   But that's the role I accept out of the love I have for him. 

Yesterday, after some celebrations, presents and cake, Thom and I found a quiet moment to light a candle and think about that day two years ago.  Two years ago, when we met our two little boys.  We just sat in the silence, watching the candle flame flicker, holding hands and letting the joy and sadness sweep through us for a while.  Wishing it could have been different and yet thankful.  Complete in happiness and broken in painful grief.  Two years on, and it amazes me how there can be two such different feelings at the same time; how I can hold such sadness and such joy. 

Hug

Just about the cutest thing Ethan learned to say over the last few weeks: Hug.  We borrowed a book from the library about a little panda looking for the perfect hug.  Like a lot of the things Ethan soaks in, he didn't seem all that into the hug book at first.  But one morning about a week later, he wandered after me into the kitchen.  Sleepy eyed and still in pj's.  He held up his arms and said, 'Hug.'

Not only is it heartbreakingly cute, but it was also a welcome replacement to the frustrated whinge he had been using to get picked up.  As he's got bigger, he wraps his little arms around, no longer a passive recipient, but an active component of the hug.

But as with all things in Ethan-world, leave it a week and he'll have evolved, learned, progressed.  He soon dialled that 'hug' got him off the floor and closer to the things he finds interesting in a much more predictable way than his wordless whine.  Light switches, computers, shiny knives, hot pans on the stove could all be within reach with a simple 'hug'. 

So we had to be a bit heartless sometimes.  When I'm cooking and Ethan comes along , arms up, chanting 'hug, hug!' I have to say, 'In a minute...'  He doesn't like that and resorts to the wordless whine.  It feels mean, but hug requests while I'm cooking have almost invariably led to him using me as a scaffold to reach out and see how hot the stuff in the frying pan is.  I'm left thinking, Hey, where's that hug?!

So he's employed another word for use when the hug isn't getting him closer to the action - Walk.  Which means 'let me down so I can go to where you won't let me'.  The other day in the grocery store, he wanted to touch everything, throw eggs on the ground and dig into old ladies' handbags.  Proper naughty.  He wanted to grab at something high up and demanded, 'Hug!'  I picked him up, pushing the trolley along with my free hand.  He was not pleased that this 'hug' wasn't actually getting him any closer to the object of his desire.  

'Walk! Walk!' He cried.  I carried on, the shop was almost done and this little man was about to turn monster.  He got more and more upset, struggling against me to get away, until in sheer desperation he turned towards total strangers to help him get to what he wanted.  'Hug!' he yelled at an old woman walking past us in the aisle.  I giggled nervously, hopping the woman wouldn't think he's being kidnapped.  Clever little guy, it was almost enough to get me to give in and let him run riot amongst the old ladies and canned goods.  I can tell I'm going to have keep on my toes with this hug monster!

Bake-tastic: time to get cookin'

Sunday. Wakey, wakey. It's time to get baking.  And not just in the kitchen, either.    Time to get cookin' on baby preparations.

I was given a stack of pregnancy and motherhood magazines a few weeks ago by my sister in law.  Mothers-to-be everywhere need information, comfort, entertaining.  Plus I plonk 'em in the bathroom so Thom can learn all about birth, labour and everything mama-tactic while he 'sits on his throne' in the morning.

What can you find in almost any womens' magazine?  Quizzes.  How are you measuring up compared to other women, is the general question.  Is rating ourselves like this really a nice way to spend our free time?  In any case, they are a little irresistible and I took one on 'what kind of pregnant woman are you?'. Turns out I am too laid back.  Uh-oh.  I was pretty pleased at managing my anxieties and not turning a baby into a substitute for my own identity and self esteem.  But have a gone too far in the direction of the slacker?

So I got crackin'.  I organised the house, streamlining and creating storage space.  I baked, baked and baked some more.  It made me feel all motherly and stuff, with the double benefit of keeping Thom happy in the midst of my whirlwind of organising.  He even took some bits up to the loft at my request. 

And I engaged in the primary activity of mothers in western society: shopping.  Got down to finally committing to a few baby essentials.  Although I have not yet kitted out the nursery, I had not been a total loser.  I've shopped around, picking out the bits I wanted and sifting wisely through the massive gravitational pull of marketing directed at mothers to figure out what we would actually need.  So my first mama-shop was really a simple case of clicking a couple bits preselected on the Internet.

How do I feel?  Truthfully, a bit more sorted and more relaxed for it.  The bits I've ordered are on their way and the soon-to-be nursery is slowly developing a wall insulated by bales of diapers.  Not sure I completely share the magazine's perspective of the ideal mother, but this feels good enough.  Plus, best of all, with freshly knitted hats from the mother-in-law here and ready to go, how could I feel uptight?  I feel like I can relax, but I'll make sure not to relax too much.

I'm pregnant. Now what?

I get out of the shower and take a peek at the stick sitting near the toilet.   Pregnancy test reads positive.  My husband is still in bed and the house is silent.   In the stillness I apply post-shower body lotion, adding a little extra to my tummy as an afterthought. 

In my memory of that morning, I recall vividly the silence as I made my way upstairs to wake Thom with the news.  Life seemed surreal and suddenly so fresh as if I was walking up the stairs for the first time.

Thom is happy.  He wipes the sleep from his eyes and bounces out of bed.  I feel like I'm watching it all unfold as an observer. Despite our plans and protection-free sex, I struggle to define how I feel. 

On the way to work I stare out the window like a zombie.  I feel like crying at times for joy, and other times for sheer amazement that being pregnant is even possible. Other times still, for fear.  Can I do it? Can I be a mother? Unforunatley only time can tell me.  Either way its happening.  After I took the test, I sometimes wanted to rush the 9 months along, wishing them away before they even begun.  At other times, I'm paralysed in terror.

For the rest of this week I have been seeing people in a different way.  Every person crammed around me on the tube, each sweaty suit-clad man plowing down the pavement to work, every old woman struggling to cross the road - all of them have been a baby.  All of them started off like this. Small, indetectible even, inside the body of someone like me.  It's a staggering thought.

On my commute in, the train stops.  It's 8am and all the commuters peel away from newspapers or open one weary eye to look around disapprovingly at no-one in particular.  After a few minutes, the conductor announces that we are stuck in delays because of a fatality on the track.  Groans and moans all around as people drag out mobile phones to explain their lateness.  I well up with tears at the thought.  Is it the hormones?  Is it the thought of a tiny life growing inside?  Either way, I am different.  A man across the carriage looks at me strangely as a snivvel into my sleeve.  Although I don't care about him, what will I tell others?  How will I explain any differences they see?  How soon to tell?

And so begins the many millions of questions I am to answer....